


Serious Eyes, Sudden Smiles

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Bedsharing, Coming of Age, Drugs, Forced Proximity, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, HEA, M/M, Pining, Tavern Tales, couchcrashing, secondary character death (canon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you are young everything seems definite. You are either in or out. Finishing up at university or messing up your whole future. </p>
<p>Written for Tavern Tales fest for March Theme: Neighbours, Roommates, Couch-Crashers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ealdor

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Sonofsilly for the beta! :)
> 
> So I guess, this might be a WIP. I'm planning to add a 3rd part in April so it's cheerful and all. For now it's angst with hope and can be read as a finished story.

**Serious eyes, sudden smiles**

  
It’s past three in the morning, and Arthur and Merlin are way too drunk and stoned to get back in the car and drive anywhere. They’ll have to stay here in Merlin’s cousin’s summer house while they sober up. It’s really more of a ramshackle cabin than anything solid, but the night is warm, and there are other people in the house, and there's booze and blankets so they should be warm enough.

Most of the good sleeping surfaces are taken, though. The two sofas are occupied by Merlin’s friends—arty, lazy, anarchistic types—in various state of sobriety, and what's left is a futon chair that reclines into a narrow sleeping cot. That should do though. Merlin is thin as a stick: there's only so much space he can take. And if they don't move much they shouldn't fall off. Besides, there's too much vodka mixed with grapefruit juice sloshing in Arthur's stomach for him to care about comfort right now.

Merlin's laughing, waving the last joint in his hand even though it’s not lit anymore. Merlin's hands are dirty as if he's been digging in black soil; they’re scratched from bending the branches for the bonfire they had earlier and damp from spilled drinks.

"Would you wash your hands at least before going to bed?" Arthur asks, but Merlin shakes his head.

"They’re sticky, Merlin. Don't be a pig," Arthur insists, but he sees the first signs of a frown on Merlin’s face and drops it because he doesn't need Merlin crying again. Merlin's eyeliner is already smeared; dirty smudges mar the pale skin around his blue eyes. And what a brave fucker Merlin is, Arthur thinks, wearing this shit here in this hole of a town. It’s not even a real town and the people here are crazy as fuck, what with poisoning Merlin's dog last month and all. _Plunk died,_ Merlin had written to Arthur back then. _Rat poison. I guess it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone to church wearing black nail polish._

Arthur fetches a glass of water for Merlin, but Merlin closes his eyes and lets his head drop back, so Arthur drinks it himself instead. He's going to be seriously hungover tomorrow anyway. He doesn't even want to think how Merlin's going to feel in the morning when the crazy mix of weed, cocaine, cheap wine and vodka starts wearing out of his system.

"Come on." He tugs on Merlin's leather bracelet and pulls him towards the chair.

Merlin's still in his boots. Arthur starts pulling on Merlin's shoelaces but it's useless. Merlin kicks his hands away, sitting up to do it himself while Arthur shimmies out of his jeans.

"Aren't you gonna take these off?" He points to Merlin’s legs while Merlin gets under a blanket in his black jeans. They are even dirtier than Merlin's hands, but it bothers Arthur less. He just wants Merlin to be comfortable.

"Too bloody cold," Merlin mumbles, wrapping the rough blanket over his shoulders.

"Scoot over," Arthur says, lying down behind Merlin. The cot is so narrow that Arthur has to strain his muscles not to fall off. After a moment of uncomfortable wriggling he thinks _fuck it_ and wraps his arm around Merlin's frame for leverage. His nose is shoved right into Merlin's neck, and Merlin's hair at the base there smells like smoke from the bonfire, sweat, and cigarettes, but overall it's not an unpleasant smell at all. It's Merlin-ish, and that means it’s both familiar and dangerous, making Arthur feel at peace and uncomfortable at the same time.

Merlin pulls on the blanket and throws the fabric over Arthur. All of a sudden they are even closer to each other, Arthur’s bare arms touching Merlin’s. If Arthur moved his hands a little their palms would be touching too, and it would be like holding hands with Merlin, intimate and imbued with meaning—something beyond just sharing a futon due to lack of space. Arthur wonders if Merlin would want this. He ponders if he himself would want this for real, or if it’s just this moment and in the morning everything would look different. It’s not as if Arthur could do anything about it later. They’re mates, but Arthur’s got his life, his courses and grades, next year’s Erasmus and his father’s expectations, while Merlin’s practically a dropout now. He’s fucking brilliant, true, but he’s missed most of his classes this term, and there’s only so much the professors will let slip.

Actually, Merlin’s been absent so much lately that when he phoned to invite Arthur for the weekend, Arthur was more than surprised. But he’s missed Merlin’s serious eyes and sudden smiles that make Arthur’s stomach twist with a feeling Arthur can’t even name. He’s missed talking to Merlin, and Merlin’s crazy math equations doodled all over their English literature notes.

“Logical puzzles are calming,” Merlin had said at Arthur’s raised eyebrow the first day they sat next to each other in a lecture. Then Merlin had fished out a crumpled package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket “Fancy a smoke?”

“You smoke?” Arthur’d asked stupidly, delighted all of a sudden and grinning like a loon.

“Yeah.” Merlin had smiled too, pointing the cigs in Arthur’s direction.

“Thanks, I don’t smoke. Not cigarettes, anyway,” Arthur’d said, and they’d both laughed. “No, it’s just that I can’t stand all these people being so proper. Thank fuck there’s at least one person who isn’t.”

And now here Arthur is with his body pressed tight to Merlin’s bony frame, and he prays, wishing that Merlin would move his hand those inches, because Arthur won’t push it, he won’t take advantage of Merlin, not when he’s high and drunk and generally not in the best place in his life. The moment drags, and Arthur’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest he’s afraid Merlin might feel it through his thin black T-shirt.

Someone in the house turns off the lights along with the music that’s been playing—a shitty, local punk rock with political, angry lyrics—and they’re left in relative silence, disturbed only by the buzzing of the old fridge, people coughing, and the distant barking of dogs from the nearby village. Arthur can hear the pulsing of his blood in his ears, and he tries to get his breathing under control: in and out, without too much noise.

He’s drifting, almost asleep now, when Merlin mumbles something about his hip and bloody cramped sleeping arrangements and then turns around, huffing. Suddenly they find themselves face-to-face with their groins pressed together and lips almost touching. Arthur’s heart jumps again, and all he can think now is “please, please, please, Merlin. Please, do it, please.” Merlin’s breath smells like potato crisps and cigarettes, but that’s okay. Arthur won’t complain. In his mind he’s already kissing Merlin, hard and messy, but in reality he’s still waiting, not daring to push it, just wishing, wishing, wishing. His fingers twitch where they are placed gently over Merlin’s hip, and his heart is still racing, making him hot and tense. He can only hope Merlin doesn’t feel Arthur’s massive boner through the denim of his jeans. He tries to not move an inch.

But as moments pass Merlin's breathing evens out, and Arthur realises Merlin's fallen asleep. He exhales slowly, and if it sounds a bit like a sob he can't help it. His whole body is shuddering, and he can’t stand how overdramatic he’s being. He tries to tell himself that the tremors are due to the strain on his muscles from maintaining this unnatural position on the cot, rather than the disappointment and the yearning. He tightens his grip on Merlin so he doesn’t fall off the cot, and he lowers his head so he's breathing into Merlin's neck now. And if his lips brush Merlin's along the way, no one will ever know.

***  
When Arthur wakes up—to a sore throat, heavy head, and queasy stomach—Merlin's still asleep, legs and one arm on the floor. Arthur gets up, pulls on his jeans and goes outside for a piss. It's cold and there's heavy dew on the grass, wetting the cuffs of his trousers. His teeth clatter and he generally feels sick, not only physically but kind of overall. He wants to go home. When he gets back inside the cabin, Merlin's sitting on the edge of the chair, clutching his head between his dirty hands and groaning.

Arthur finds a half-full carton of grapefruit juice from last night and pushes it into Merlin's lap.

"Cheers," Merlin says. He sounds rough, and his fingers shake as he struggles with the cap on carton. He takes long gulps, and halfway through suddenly stands up and runs outside. Arthur can hear him retching onto the dewy grass.

Others in the house stir too, searching for food and drink and cigarettes. The music is back on, filling the place with the loud noise of electric guitar and drums.

Arthur probably shouldn't get behind the wheel in this state, but he can't wait to be out of here. They bid their good-byes and go. Arthur packs Merlin into his car, and Merlin dozes throughout the short drive to his mother’s house, curled up under Arthur’s jumper.

“You sure you don’t want to come in for breakfast?” Merlin asks once they’ve arrived. “Mum wouldn’t mind. She thinks you’re a good influence, you know?”

But Arthur doesn’t feel strong enough to face Merlin’s mum with her concerned looks and questions about the future. So he shakes his head. “Thanks, but I have to get back. Revise for this economics test tomorrow.”

“We should do it again sometime," Merlin says. Arthur hums something noncommittal and smiles. He knows Merlin probably doesn’t remember anything about last night, least of all how close they were on the futon. It’s more Arthur’s imagination and wishful thinking than reality anyway. After all, nothing happened.

There’s so much regret in Arthur, all of a sudden. He makes up his mind, pulls on Merlin's sleeve, and hugs the hell out of him. Merlin's body goes limp in Arthur's arms, and he doesn't comment when Arthur kisses his neck before he straightens up.

"Take care, see you in class," Arthur says and Merlin nods, even if they both know damn well Merlin's not coming back to Uni. “Keep the jumper, mate. You look cold.”

"Thanks.” Merlin gets out of the car and slowly ascends the steps to the house, wobbling a bit. He’s probably still high. Arthur waves to Merlin one last time, and then he's on his way, feeling unreal and tired and very lonely, rethinking last night, redoing it in his mind, wondering where it went wrong.


	2. New York

Merlin steps back to make room for Arthur’s bag in the narrow corridor.

“Leave it here,” Merlin says. “You want something to drink? The bathroom’s down the hall. And here,” he indicates to his right, “is the bedroom. The kitchen is behind this wall.”

The place doesn’t suit Merlin at all, but oddly… suits him. It’s packed with oriental furniture and red rugs; there are masks and abstract paintings on the walls. Most of the small living room is taken up by a large, dark-green couch. “Christ, it’s hot,” Merlin says, turning towards the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Please.” Arthur says, watching Merlin.

Merlin looks good. Different, but good-different. Radiant. This is the word that comes to Arthur’s mind first. His hair is an artistic mess, but it’s quite obvious there’s a good haircut underneath the chaos, and he’s wearing a deep-blue T-shirt that brings out his eyes. He seems strong and fit. Arthur’s isn’t sure he can deal with Merlin looking like this. Some weird nostalgia for the skinny, messed-up boy he once knew tugs at his chest, making him yearn for everything that disappeared along with the uni years.

Merlin comes back with a glass of water. It’s cold and allows Arthur to busy his hands for a moment and focus on something other than Merlin’s face.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” He waves towards the room.

“Oh. No, no.” Merlin laughs. “This isn’t mine. Freya, my friend who’s a teacher in Columbia, owns this place. She’s gone for a year on exchange to Switzerland, and I’m taking care of the apartment for her. I’d never be able to afford a place in this neighbourhood; the prices are pretty much insane.” He moves towards the window, closing the blinds a notch, and Arthur is transfixed by him again, bewildered by the calm and confident aura around Merlin. He used to be so awkward with his body, and now he’s just _flowing_ through this space without effort. “The AC is broken. A guy’s coming on Tuesday to fix it, but until then there’s a fan. I’m afraid it gets really unbearable by the end of the day here.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, running fingers through his hair. “The fan’s fine.”

“Good.” Merlin smiles. It’s familiar and sudden and hits Arthur like a blast of hot air, and he’s absolutely unable not to smile back.

“So,” Merlin says, “do you want to go out for dinner tonight or do you want me to order something?”

“I’d rather stay put, if that’s all right.” The jet lag is making Arthur feel unreal, like after few stiff drinks. It’s only eight in the evening and it’s still sunny outside, but Arthur’s head says it’s the middle of the night. He wants to sit down, or lie down and rest.

Merlin vanishes into the kitchenette and emerges with a few menus in his hand. “Thai, Indian, Cantonese?”

“I’m happy with whatever you’re getting for yourself,” Arthur says, not sure if he’s making a good choice since Merlin’s taste in food has always been eccentric. “Can I use the bathroom?”

It takes him a moment to figure out the faucets, and as he stands under the spray of cool water Arthur thinks how odd everything seems now that he’s here. It started so innocently—one email about a project Merlin thought Arthur could give advice on (since he works as a business consultant) that turned into more emails over the course of a few months. Then some crazy gchat sessions during which they exchanged views on important things like how lame the dialogue in _The Walking Dead_ is, especially compared to the original comic. And then there was, _Oh, you should totally come visit. I’ll have a short break and it’s a bloody frying pan here in the summer, but there’s tons of stuff to do and you should come. The couch is comfy._

And Arthur probably shouldn’t step twice into the same waters, but it has been years and he’s not the same person anymore. Nor is Merlin. This new, successful, calm man Arthur only knows through the Internet.

Arthur steps out of the shower and goes to the living room in a tee and boxers, hoping Merlin won’t mind. The warm air in the flat seems to stand still. It’s oppressive, suffocating and heavy. There are cartons of food on the low table next to the couch, and Merlin is sitting on the floor, his long, long legs stretched out, bare feet placed one over the other.

Arthur crouches down on the opposite side of the table. His exhaustion has reached the stage where the edges of the furniture fluctuate a little. He barely registers the motion of his hands, he doesn’t taste the food in his mouth. He drinks ice water that Merlin must have refilled.

“I thought you were a lost cause,” Arthur says, putting his glass down. It’s blatantly rude to say a thing like this, but his mind has short-circuited or something, running the same thought over and over.

Merlin stops eating and looks at him pensively. “Yeah. I guess I needed more time to get my shit together.”

Arthur nods. He used to think everything was definite. You were either in or out. Finishing up at university or messing up your whole future.

“Do you like it? What you’re doing?” he asks.

Merlin puts the food away and stretches on the floor, leaning against the couch, his head thrown back, eyes closed, pale neck exposed. Arthur watches Merlin’s Adam’s apple as it moves when Merlin swallows. “Well, the PhD stuff is killing me. I swear to God this dissertation will be the death of me. But I guess it’s interesting. I mean, I’m so caught up in this project!” He opens his eyes and gesticulates. “We’re organizing a research group, and once I’m finished with the degree I’m going to Zurich to work with Freya’s people there, and… You’ll need to shut me up or I’ll bore you to death.” Merlin laughs but then grows serious watching Arthur. He’s always had that way of looking straight through Arthur. “How’ve you been? I mean, I know how, but you look tired. And not travel-tired. Just...”

There’s no good way for Arthur to tell Merlin how he’s been. He’s not sure he can answer it himself. He shrugs and closes his eyes. He blames the sodding jet lag for the tears that prickle at the edges of his lids. _Everything’s fine_ , he tells himself. Just fine. He doesn’t say it out loud.

Later, he lies on the sheet-covered couch, which is so soft he’ll probably be all achy in the morning, and listens to the sounds of this unfamiliar city, too tired and disoriented to fall asleep. Someone slams the door of a cab, people laugh, there’s the staccato clacking of heels on the pavement and the tick-tock of a clock on the wall. In the adjoining bedroom the fan is buzzing, and Arthur wonders how Merlin looks, sprawled on the small four-poster bed that’s there.

He wakes up to the soft click of closing door. Arthur’s still tired after the late night but he can’t go back to sleep. His phone says 6:30 a.m. He just lies there, watching the room and all the treasures on the walls and shelves. He wonders if any of those are Merlin’s, and how it might feel to live in a place that’s not yours at all.

“You’ve been running,” he says when Merlin gets back, his T-shirt stained with sweat, cheeks flushed.

“Keeps the demons at bay,” Merlin laughs, peeling the T-shirt off. And Christ, he’s so fit. His chest is flushed too—a dark patch of rosy skin that goes up to Merlin’s neck. Arthur watches Merlin wipe himself up with the fabric. “Bloody sauna already. Going to be unbearable today. We’d better hide in museums.” He throws the T-shirt on the floor next to the bathroom door. “Be right back.”

Arthur stays put, listening to the running shower and staring at Merlin’s crumpled T-shirt on the floor.

 

***

 

They come back late in the evening, feet aching, stomachs full of delicious, sweet-smelling samosas. Arthur feels high; he’s still jet lagged, but also invigorated by the hyperfocus he's had on Merlin all day long. He’s both exhausted and exhilarated, aware of Merlin's presence next to him, Merlin's breathing, Merlin’s fidgety little movements.

 

The stale air in the apartment is like an oven, and Merlin opens all the windows but it's not nearly enough to make a dent in the heat. They take turns running cool showers and then camp in the bedroom where they’ve placed the bigger fan. They climb on the bed with a bowl of tortilla chips and huge juice glasses filled with white wine and ice. There's something forbidden and magical about wasting time watching _Friends_ reruns with Merlin, laughing at the best parts and reciting the dialogue to each other. Their hands brush each time they reach out for another chip, and for a moment Arthur pretends that this is his real life: this man next to him, this break from the stress of work, this summer city. He tries not to think about the amount of work that awaits him after the break, and the cold flat he shares with no one.

They’re halfway through their wine when Merlin asks, “Do you remember that night in the cabin when we had to share a futon?”

Arthur’s stomach tightens, and a hot wave of embarrassment washes over him as if he’s been caught doing something forbidden. “Yes.” He keeps his voice cautiously calm.

“You’ll laugh,” Merlin says and falls silent, turning towards Arthur, watching him from underneath his eyelashes. They’ve always been ridiculously long, like a girl’s. Arthur waits. “I had this horrible crush on you back then. I wanted you to… I don’t know.”

Arthur turns towards Merlin too. The TV’s showing some car commercial. Despite the fan it’s still hot in the room, and Merlin’s hair is sticking to his forehead and curling over his ears. Arthur wonders what would Merlin say if he brushed the damp curls from Merlin’s skin.

“I… wanted to,” Arthur says. His mouth is dry and it comes out raspy. He has to clear his throat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d…”

Merlin’s watching him. His eyes are navy blue, almost black in the flickering light. “Back then I thought you were straight.”

Arthur might have thought that back then, too.

“I’m not,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t move an inch when Merlin lifts his hand and cups Arthur’s jaw, immobilizing him in a tight, painful grip. Merlin’s lips are soft and salty, and Arthur leans into the kiss, surrendering, falling.

“Maybe we shouldn’t?” he asks some time later when Merlin’s half leaning on Arthur, their erections brushing through the thin fabric of their boxer briefs.

Merlin’s breathless, squeezing Arthur’s wrists hard. He’s bloody strong and it hurts, but Arthur doesn’t say a word. “We want this. I want you. Give me one good reason why we should stop.”

“What if it messes up our friendship?”

Merlin lifts on his arms. He’s still pinning Arthur down, but he looks at him, a tiny gleam in his eye. “But we’re not friends, really. We haven’t spoken to each other in years.”

This is true, but the real problem is different. The thing is, Arthur wants it all. He wants it black or white, just the way he used to see things when he was younger. He wants Merlin all the way. He wants Merlin day and night and not just here and now.

He doesn’t say this, though. He just nods and allows Merlin to arrange them on the bed, allows Merlin to dig for the supplies. And then there’s the warm air of the night, the silence of the room after the TV’s been turned off, and Merlin’s shallow breathing when Arthur places him on his back, spreading Merlin’s legs, opening him slowly on his fingers. And later still, there’s Merlin straddling Arthur, lifting up and down, and Arthur’s cock buried deep, aching, spilling.

It’s way too warm to cuddle so they fall asleep holding hands, lips almost touching, foreheads pressed together.

***

“Will you come visit when I’m in Zurich?” Merlin asks when Arthur’s packing four days later, his hands shaky, body exhausted and mind wiped clean of everything but Merlin.

“I will,” he says. And then, “Merlin.”

How can he explain?

“Okay, good,” Merlin says. He pulls Arthur towards him, squeezing him, twisting the fabric of Arthur’s only clean shirt.

Arthur brushes Merlin’s hair back. He doesn’t care if it’s silly. He’s allowed to do it. “I will,” he says again.

On the plane he can still feel Merlin’s hands on his skin, Merlin’s cock stretching him. He can see Merlin’s smile and he smiles too, because soon Merlin’s going to move closer and Arthur will visit him again. He will.


	3. Zurich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again. First of all - I am so so so sorry it took me so long to write the next part. Second of all - this drifted somehow towards more angst so there will be more. I hope to post soon.
> 
> Once again - many thanks to Sonsofsilly for beta'ing and to Ememmyem for the britpick!

ZURICH – SUMMER

 

Zurich is  _polished_.

That’s the first thought that comes to Arthur’s mind after he steps out of the fancy train that’s brought him to the city centre. Shop windows are clean and shiny, reflecting mothers pushing fancy buggies with sleeping babies; grey and silver cars move lazily, stopping obediently at traffic lights; and a blue tram almost runs Arthur over when he steps in front of it, wanting to cross the street London-style. The tram rings an angry bell at Arthur, who waves and smiles, mouthing apologies that won’t be understood. It doesn’t matter since the driver can’t hear him anyway.

It seems like every café is packed with people standing outside and drinking espressos at high silver tables, talking loudly and clicking the silverware. 

And it’s the middle of a working day, for fuck’s sake. Why aren’t all those people in offices? Arthur takes one more look at his iPhone, where Google Maps displays the route to whatever-its-name-Strasse, and turns left between grey stone buildings. The door to number twelve—which is Merlin's, and apparently now also Arthur’s, new address—has an old intercom with little metal buttons that reminds Arthur of old films and his Latin tutor's flat. He pushes the button, there’s a low buzzing sound, and he’s let in without enquiry into the dark entryway. He's momentarily blinded after stepping in from the sunny street, but he doesn't stop to wait for his eyes to adjust.

When he reaches the door his heart is beating hard and he’s a bit breathless, but he blames it on the narrow stairs he’s climbed to the third floor. He wipes his damp palms on his jeans and adjusts the strap of his travel bag, as if he’s not going to drop it in just a moment.

But then Merlin opens the door and Arthur just stands there, staring. Merlin’s collarbone is visible through his stretched, faded T-shirt, his hair is sticking out, and he has a Sesame Street plaster on his exposed shin. Merlin’s face stretches into one of his wide, breathtaking grins. He pulls Arthur inside, and then into a hard, wet kiss. It starts out with too much force and way too much enthusiasm, until it slows down and they just stand in the hall, lips touching, breathing each other’s air.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been here for the last three weeks and you haven’t had time to unpack.” Arthur points to the boxes piled high around the flat.

“Eh,” Merlin says and smiles, scratching his head. “I did unpack the most important things, like...” He points to the coffee table with his laptop and to the mountain of books on the floor next to the couch. “And some clothes.” He twirls like a model on a catwalk, presenting the worn T-shirt and a huge stain on his cut-off shorts.

Arthur laughs, then places his palms on both sides of Merlin’s face, caressing Merlin’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Fuck, did I miss you,” he says and kisses Merlin again.

***

Arthur wakes up to someone pressing a cold, wet can of Coke to his crotch. And why would anyone do this? It's an oddly nice feeling though, slowly arousing, and as reality pulls Arthur out of the tumble of images and thoughts into the dim light of Merlin's bedroom, he only hopes that he hasn't come in his pants like a teenage boy having a wet dream. 

He and Merlin had spent most of the day unpacking box after box of clothes, books, DVDs: a surprisingly huge collection of debris for someone who moves often. Arthur had gotten lost somewhere in the middle of volumes of old _Yans_ comic books and photo albums from Merlin’s first US trip, his hands dusty and dry, his head throbbing and back aching. 

When he stretched later in Merlin’s bed, surrounded by pillows smelling of lilac detergent and Merlin’s shampoo, he could still feel the old paper slipping roughly through his fingers. He turned his head to look at Merlin, and they both wanted to do more, he knows it, but there was all the unboxing they’d done, and the new place, and Merlin’s hurt shin, and Arthur’s headachy lids being just too heavy.

But as he gains consciousness now, Arthur realises it's not a cold can of soda that’s woken him up. The sheets are pulled down, crumpled under Merlin's body. Merlin, who’s lying between Arthur’s legs, his lips wrapped around Arthur's cock. His palm is pressed tight to Arthur's hip, thumb rubbing little circles and fingers twitching to some inner rhythm that makes Arthur think there’s music constantly playing somewhere inside of Merlin’s body, directing his every move and gesture. Arthur's cock starts to fill and Merlin pulls back, looks up, and grins, his smile visible in the light coming from the window.

“What?” Arthur says. It comes out raspy, so he clears his throat. “Merlin.”

Merlin smiles and sinks back down, putting both of his palms on Arthur's hipbones, then sliding them back to grip Arthur's ass-cheeks. A fingertip slips inside Arthur's cleft, teasing and retreating, squeezed between Arthur's body and the bed.

There are things that Arthur isn’t used to in bed. He’s actually way more restrained and self-conscious than anyone would suspect—not that he doesn't fantasise about those things, or watch them in porn. But there's always that voice in his head that tells him to stop at a certain line, _this is as far as it goes_. Which is why he gasps, tensing, when Merlin pushes his legs up, exposing him, and slowly kisses his way down to Arthur's hole. But then he closes his eyes, because this is Merlin, who once sent him a pic of his dick dressed up as a Minion, one-eyed and painted yellow; it's Merlin who told him so many times what he'd do to Arthur once he got his hands on him—how he'd eat his arse out, how he’d love it, how he'd take Arthur bare only to lick it all out later. And while Arthur might have thought it was just dirty talk to get them off, to help them pass the _waiting_ , it's all here now to take and give.

Merlin’s first lick feels like a jolt of electricity, surprising, and then the second one comes warm and wet, and so good that Arthur has to moan. He feels ashamed of himself. His cheeks are burning but he doesn’t dare to move—not a single finger, not a nod of his head. He goes limp, everything in him unfolding and loosening when Merlin presses his warm, flat tongue to his skin, just holding it there for a moment and then lapping up, and again. Warmth fills Arthur's body, and every muscle relaxes briefly before tensing up once more when Merlin keeps going, the tip of his tongue breaching the resistance, hands pressing harder on Arthur's thighs to open him up more.

Arthur looks down to see, in the shadows of the bedroom, Merlin looking dishevelled and a little crazed and so, so hot. A shiver goes through Arthur seeing Merlin brave and demanding like this. Arthur's legs begin to shake. His body yearns for the release that can't be obtained in this way. He needs to touch his cock, which is twitching against his stomach, pre-come oozing and catching on his pubes like silver cobwebs.

“Merlin.” He reaches out with his hand, trailing his fingers lightly over Merlin's temple, then down Merlin's cheek and chin where it's slick and wet with saliva. “Would you...?” He pulls on Merlin, wanting him up, wanting Merlin's face close to his, mouth on his mouth and Merlin's cock inside him before he goes insane.

“All right, all right,” Merlin says, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Can you pass me the lube?” And when Arthur doesn't move, just lies there a bit breathless, his legs sprawled wide, Merlin nods his head. “In the drawer there.”

Arthur reaches toward the drawer blindly, feeling the shapes of the objects with his hand. “You haven’t had time to unpack your clothes, but your sex-toys drawer is all set.”

“Priorities,” Merlin mutters.

“What is _that?_ ” Arthur asks, pulling out a thing that doesn’t even have a solid shape. It’s _huge_ and covered in wobbly things that stick out.

Merlin laughs. “Let’s save it for some other time.”

Arthur lets the toy drop and passes a tube of lube to Merlin, feeling oddly exposed and intimidated. He’s lying there passively, just waiting for things to happen. Perhaps he should do something—flip them over, slick Merlin's cock himself, impale himself on it—but instead he's just immobile like a log, as if he's lazy or not eager, ceding all initiative to Merlin. But Merlin doesn’t seem to mind.

Arthur opens his mouth soundlessly when Merlin pushes in bare, slowly, then pushes in some more. Arthur places his hands on Merlin's hips ever so lightly. He knows he'll probably lose it later, grip Merlin hard, pull on his body to the point where Merlin might be sore later, but for now he’s enjoying Merlin's smooth skin sliding under his fingertips with each thrust of Merlin's hips. He tries to imagine how Merlin’s cock must look pushing into his arse. The idea of Merlin spending inside of him with no barrier, messy, sticky, makes his head swim.

He hopes he'll smell of Merlin throughout the next day, during meetings for his job here. He hopes he’ll be sore so he’s reminded of Merlin’s physical presence while he’s discussing arrangements, so he feels he's finally Merlin’s for good and not the corporation’s, the subsidiary his father has placed him at for now. 

***

It’s seven thirty when he slips out of the bed, leaving Merlin splayed on the sheets on his stomach, arms outstretched and hair messy. It looks as if Merlin’s floating on the mattress in the midst of a white ocean. Arthur digs in his bag for running shoes and tries not to make a sound when he leaves the flat. Clouds are low over the city, grey drizzle muting the colours of the surroundings and making car tires kick up rainwater with splashy sounds.

He’s reached the end of the street when he has to stop for a moment. He leans down, putting his palms on his thighs, winded, then hunches over and suddenly chokes as a huge rush of despair, or panic, or whatever it is, hits him square in the chest. Because he’s doing it, finally, and he’s all-in. And he's not a nice person, he knows it. He can be charming at first impression, true, but anyone who really knows him quickly learns that Arthur is an egotistical, self-centered, over-ambitious prick who wants to be the best in everything that he does, even if it's just making Xerox copies. He used to think he was a demanding but fair boss, a loyal friend, and pleasant company after hours. But he's overheard enough employees’ conversations now and seen enough mis-sent emails to know that in fact he's perceived as an overbearing, stern and angry person, much like his father. And, oh God, he's turning into his father already. How long will it take Merlin to see what Arthur is really like? Will Merlin have deep enough feelings for Arthur to be with him when he discovers he doesn't like him as a person?

Arthur always expected love to be this sudden, overwhelming sensation that consumes everything it touches, strong as a hurricane and as deadly, yet also fleeting. But what he feels now isn't this. There's some deep ache inside him, as if Merlin has been planted into Arthur’s marrow. There’s no way this will burn out; this is for good. He breathes through the panic. He straightens up and gets ready to run back, focusing on the even movement of his feet hitting the ground. The first shy sunrays push through the clouds, painting the path in shimmering stripes where they pass through the leaves of the trees. He needs to head back home, to Merlin, and get ready for the day—for the new job at the local branch, and for the temporary life here before Merlin’s project’s over and they can both move back to London.

 

 

ZURICH – WINTER

 

Arthur almost misses Merlin, who's already rushing out of their flat, keys jangling in his hand.

“You never do this when we go out.” Arthur waves to Merlin's silhouette pressed into skinny jeans and a tight black button-down, and to Merlin's eyes highlighted by dark eyeliner.

“Oh,” Merlin says, kissing Arthur chastely on the cheek. "It's because it doesn't suit the places we go to. You sure you don’t want to come? Freya won't mind."

"No, no. Go ahead," Arthur says, thinking, _On the cheek. On. The. Cheek._

Merlin's already at the end of the corridor, waving. "Might be late! Don't wait." As if Arthur's not waiting. All he does here is wait—wait for Merlin to come back, for friends to be home so he can Skype them, for the bloody project to be finished so they can move back to London, to normality and a life that’s not suspended between stages.

He pours himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge and sits down with his laptop, staring at the icons, not seeing them really. The juice is ice-cold and sour. It hurts his teeth. He presses the glass to his cheek, runs it up to his temple, and stays like that for a moment. When he puts the glass back down, little condensation circles stain the table. He smears them with his finger, then places both of his palms flat on the table, splaying his fingers and pressing, trying to anchor himself, to get a grip on this situation, to man up and stop acting like a petulant child.

He sighs and waits for the call to connect, listening to the familiar Skype tones.

“Hi, Arthur!” Leon’s face fills almost the whole screen; Arthur can practically see the insides of his nostrils. “We’re about to head out. Oh here, Gwaine wants to say hi.”

Leon’s being pushed away and his face is replaced with Gwaine’s wide grin. “How’s my favorite wife doing?”

“Har, har, bloody funny,” Arthur says.

“Well, you call it what you like, Princess. All I know is that we’re going for drinks and some serious bird-hunting tonight, and from what I hear from the ugly-face here, you’ve been playing house for the last half year, cooking and washing your husband’s dirty socks.”

Gwaine’s laughing, and it’s just teasing, but Arthur’s palms turn sweaty and he feels a harsh wave of anger that he knows he can’t act on.

“Right,” he says. “You wankers go and try not to bring me shame, so when I’m back in London I’m let into the Rising Sun again.”

He clicks disconnect before his mask slips. He tries to avoid his thoughts, going through the motions of picking up Merlin’s discarded clothes to throw them in the hamper and shutting off the lights on the way to the bedroom. They’ve almost run out of toothpaste, and he makes a mental note to pick some up tomorrow.

When Merlin comes home later, smelling of sweat and cigarettes—because apparently smoking is a fad here—Arthur lies still in the dark on his side of the bed, turned away from Merlin in his pretend-sleep with his eyes open. But when Merlin wraps himself around Arthur, warm and lean, sighing with contentment, he doesn't have the heart to push him away. He covers Merlin's hands, lets Merlin slide his cold feet in between his shins, and sinks into oblivion, heart beating in time to Merlin's light breathing.

***

“The dean says our project can get an extension," Merlin mumbles around his toast when they sit in the morning in the brightly lit kitchen. _Everything is white,_ Arthur thinks. The shelves, the chairs, the plates, the rice milk they drink. White, plain. 

“Hm?” he says.

“Six months at least. Maybe more. We got the grant!” Merlin’s bright-eyed and visibly excited, but Arthur can hear the worry in his voice and he knows why it’s there.

"What? Stay here?" He needs to be certain.

"Yhm."

Arthur hates how cautious Merlin is to not let it slip that he wants it, that he wants it more than their prior arrangements and promises he’s made. They finish their breakfast and Arthur cleans up so as to occupy his hands with something and not look at Merlin. He doesn’t want Merlin to see how much he can’t stand the idea of staying here another six months. Merlin knows it anyway.

 

***

"You’ve put your life on hold for this boy. Don't throw away your career," Uther had said during their morning call. And Arthur was ravenous for his advice because he’s no longer sure what's important and what's not. He's trapped in limbo, neither here for good nor in London, a place that occupies his thoughts more often than he’d care to admit.

He thinks of his father’s words as he navigates between the nearest _Coop_ aisles, trying to put together some reasonable mix of groceries that doesn’t have them eating pasta with yoghurt and cucumbers or something. The shop is packed at this time of the day, people rushing through their shopping after work, and Arthur has to squeeze himself into the deli line for fresh cheese. He’s willing to wait though—it’ll taste better than the packaged one. And it’s come to this, Arthur thinks. Instead of learning Merlin, he’s learned the difference between packaged Swiss and fresh.

Arthur puts the wrapped cheese into his basket and moves to the aisle with tea, taking black for himself. He's irritable and distracted, as always in shops. Next to him a woman tries to placate a whiny child with a biscuit, and suddenly Arthur can't do it anymore. He stands there in front of the shelf, holding a packet of chamomile tea for Merlin, feeling paralyzed. He just can't put it in the basket. The repulsion against the herbal tea is so strong he’s sick with it. He won't finish the shopping. He won't move. He won't go home. He'll collapse here, under the tea shelf, hoping the earth will spread under his feet and engulf him so he doesn't have to deal with bloody groceries and fucking Zurich and Merlin not being home because he's too fucking busy with his _precious project_ to live. 

But then, as always, Arthur does move. He puts the tea in the basket, and then picks up bread and toothpaste and toilet paper (because they've almost run out of it, too), and passes by the shelf with lube since they won't be needing that, just like they never try out the gadgets Merlin’s got hidden in his drawer anymore.

He then stands patiently in the checkout line, staring at the sweets by the register, trying to ignore the pang of longing for a bag of Percy pigs from _Marks and Sparks_ near his London flat.

***

The door is unlocked, so Merlin's home after all. Arthur puts his keys on the table in the hall, and he walks into the living room where Merlin’s splayed on the sofa, sleeping, laptop screen gone black on his lap and notes scattered all over the table. Arthur takes Merlin’s laptop delicately, careful not to wake Merlin up, and puts it on top of the notes.

_Merlin should sleep,_ he thinks. It'll do him good. He's not been getting enough rest lately. Arthur used to think that doing science projects was a bit like talking all day about things that seem worthwhile but aren't, like some kind of idle procrastination with a deep conviction that one is doing something important. But Merlin's work is  _actually_  important—his research on conflict resolution will have an impact even on Arthur’s own work. But it’s exhausting, too.

Sometimes Arthur isn't sure if Merlin sleeps at all since he's always still up when Arthur drifts into dreams, too tired to wait for Merlin to come to bed. And then in the mornings Merlin is already hunched over some paper, or printing notes, spilling his tea over freshly inked pages.

Arthur walks to the kitchen and takes out some cold cuts to prepare himself a sandwich. He'd make a proper dinner, but Merlin would probably pass on that, as he’s been doing lately, and Arthur hates cooking just for himself. He sets water to boil and places a bag of chamomile in a cup for Merlin.

He checks his empty work email one last time while loosening his tie and shedding work clothes. It seems so ungrateful to not value free time, but if Arthur's being honest, he'd welcome the distraction of work.

He sets the plate with the sandwich on the coffee table along with his tea and sits at the end of the couch, turning the TV to the sports channel and pressing mute. When Merlin stretches his legs, Arthur gently puts Merlin's socked feet on his lap, placing his palm over Merlin's ankle where the skin is bare.

“I didn't hear you come in,” Merlin says some time later, still groggy from his nap.

“Hm.” Arthur nods to the clock, which shows it's already after seven. He strokes Merlin's calf. "Hungry?"

Merlin shakes his head. “I had lunch on campus.”

Arthur doesn't point out that lunch was ages ago and just keeps stroking Merlin's feet, massaging them gently until Merlin hums and stretches like a cat, his long arms extended over his head in invitation.

“That’s nice. Keep doing that.” He sighs contentedly. Arthur tugs on the socks and then keeps rubbing Merlin's bare feet. He thinks that Merlin has the most beautifully formed feet—slim and long with sweet round toes and elegant arches. He leans down and kisses Merlin's foot, first on the bony topside where blue veins cross it like an abstract picture, and then the underside, soft and puffy like a cushion and warm from sleep. He wonders if Merlin would allow him to make love to his feet, to place his cock inside the tight space between the two joined soles and caress them while pumping in and out of this formed tunnel. And then he'd come all over Merlin's delicate skin, painting Merlin's obscenely pretty feet with his seed. Judging from how Merlin's other foot is pressing into Arthur's straining cock, and by how Merlin's lips are parted, wet and lush, inviting Arthur in, probably yes.

But there are other matters to be brought up first.

“Uther called today,” he says. Merlin keeps his eyes closed since it’s not as if a father calling his only son is such an unusual thing. Arthur pushes his thumbs into the skin on Merlin’s foot, as if he could divert Merlin’s attention from his next sentence. “He wants me to run the new branch of Camelot Consulting in London. I’d start next week.”

There’s that horrible stillness when everything becomes suspended in time and space for just a few seconds. A silence before the storm. Merlin’s not asking, because he already knows the answer—Arthur wouldn’t have brought up the issue otherwise.

“I miss my life,” Arthur says as an apology, and immediately he knows that these words are a mistake. Isn't Merlin a part of his life? The most important part?

But if he's honest, he feels like he’s not himself here. He misses meeting friends for a pint on Friday and footie matches on Wednesdays; he misses having ambition in his work and the anxiety of pushing the projects forward; he even missesrush hour on the Tube and the impossible crowds on the streets.

Merlin scrambles off the couch and disappears into the bathroom without a word. Arthur can hear water running, and then there’s no sound at all.

***

_It’s weird how people can avoid talking about the things that break their heart, thus making the heartache so much worse,_ Arthur thinks when he recalls his last days in Zurich with Merlin. Whenever the memories hit him, he can't not stop on his way and lean his hand on the tiled wall of London’s luxurious new office, fighting the urge to double over into a fetal position so that his body matches his mind-set. He thinks of that first night after he’d told Merlin he was going back, the air silent and suffocating, making Arthur nauseous when he pressed his face into the lilac-scented pillows. He can remember Merlin's absence on his side of the bed, and then hours later the mattress dipping lightly and a body sneaking under the covers, careful not to touch, not to disturb Arthur under the freshly laundered sheets.

Then there were cold, snowy days, and Arthur wrapped in layers of wool coats and scarves, finishing his affairs at the Zurich office and packing whatever belongings he had into two bags. And there was Merlin not seeing him to the door on the morning of Arthur’s flight back. No one said anything about breaking up or not being together anymore, but no emails followed either.

If Arthur drank too much on the first night back in his own flat, it was only reasonable. And if he drank too much on the second night back, well…

 


	4. Ealdor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter deals with a death of a parent, funeral and experiencing grief.  
> As usual all my love goes to sonsofsilly for beta'ing and to ememmyem for the britpick!

**Ealdor**

 

_Balinor died. Funeral in Ealdor on Wed 2 p.m. In case you want to know. Heart failure. Fitting, I guess._

This is the text Arthur gets from Merlin in the middle of a budget meeting.

“Excuse me.” He stands up and walks out of the conference room into the empty, tiled corridor. He thumbs the phone, going through the message over and over, his heart unsettled after seeing Merlin’s name on the display.

These last few months—Arthur doesn’t really have a name for it. He hasn’t heard a word from Merlin. If he’d felt trapped in an abyss before, while with Merlin in Zurich, _this,_ here now in London, is utter hell. It’s suffocating and pointless, with days flying by one after the other in some horrid repeat of getting up, working, and getting up to work again. 

He used to think he was exceptional—always top student, so fast, so sharp. _You can grow up to do anything, Arthur_. It’s crushing how life nullifies our childhood assumptions, how university can shift the world’s view of our talents and abilities. Still, he’s doing his best here, working hard. At least Arthur’s father seems pleased. And even if he’s not exactly a Microsoft- or Apple-level executive, he’s probably the most dependable person in the office.

Figures, he can’t come up with a simple reply now. He didn’t know Merlin’s father well, met him only once, but this one brief meeting gave him an impression of a very driven man, interesting to talk to, if a bit radical for Arthur’s standards.

_Thank you for letting me know_ , he types and deletes, because what an impersonal, douchey thing to say. 

_I’ll be there._ He deletes that too. It sounds like he’s going to a party, Goddamn it.

He wants to ask Merlin if he needs help, but there’s probably not much Arthur can offer. 

He settles on, _I’m sorry. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll try to come_. But he feels like a cold-hearted, artificial prat when he hits Send.

 

***

He’s greeted by Merlin’s mum, who still looks the same as she did all those years ago when Arthur was here for the first time. Hunith’s warm hands clasp around his and pull him into a strong hug against her slight frame. He stiffens, not accustomed to affection, but then gives in, inhaling the smell of lavender and home baking, thinking that this is what a mother should smell like, this is what returning home should feel like.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, because this is the right thing to say, and also because he really is. Somehow Balinor and Hunith had stayed friends even after their separation years ago, sharing that strange, deep affection for each other that never wavered with distance. Perhaps some couples work better this way.

“Thank you.” Hunith releases him and guides him through a dark hallway that smells like sand and damp, as only country houses do. It reminds Arthur of summers with Uther in small rented cottages, of running inside from the sun and hiding under the stairs eating green sour apples from the garden before dinner. 

“Do you want some tea, sweetheart?” Hunith asks. She’s already moving around the open kitchen, putting on the kettle and taking out homemade biscuits.

“No, thank you, maybe later. I just... I’d like to talk to Merlin first.”

Hunith puts her palm on his shoulder and guides him towards the back door. “He wanted to take a walk before all the madness starts. Should be by the barn, I think. Still a couple of hours to go.”

He nods to her and smiles when her hand drops lightly down his arm and squeezes his palm. He’s overwhelmed by her small signs of affection. He swallows hard, embarrassed by his childish reaction. But then again she’s always been maternal like this, her sense of protection extending naturally from Merlin to his friends.

The fields outside are the deep and yet faded colours of late summer. August is almost over but it’s still warm, quite hot even, and Arthur has to shade his eyes from the sun to look for Merlin. He finds him sitting on the ground on a small hill behind the barn, looking straight ahead. He doesn’t stand up or turn to Arthur when Arthur sits next to him in silence. 

“You came,” Merlin finally says. “Thank you.” His voice sounds thick and rough, like after a night of drinking, or crying, or both.

“How could I not? You’re my…” Arthur doesn’t know how to finish. Friend? Merlin’s more than that. Boyfriend? But is he? They aren’t together anymore after all. “I love you,” he says instead.

Merlin turns his face to him, his eyelashes wet and stuck together, making him look like a manga character. “You’ve never told me that before.”

Arthur shrugs. “Thought it was obvious.”

“It’s different when you say it.” Merlin smiles, and as usual it feels like the sun’s coming out from behind heavy rain clouds. It takes Arthur’s breath away. _Every single time_ , he thinks. He’s been caught in the net of Merlin’s sudden smiles for years and he’ll never be able to get free of them.

“I do, though.”

Merlin looks ahead, still smiling. “I do too, you know?”

“I know,” Arthur says, thinking that _yes_ , he does know that. He’s always known, but God, is Merlin right that it’s different to hear it.

“It’s weird,” Merlin says, picking at the grass. “I barely knew him, just, you know, lately mostly from random emails and stuff, but I guess I’ll miss him. Maybe not even him, because I wouldn’t think of him on a daily basis. Just, I don’t know. The possibility of meeting with him, getting to know him better. This is all...” He throws away the blade of grass. “So many things I’ll never know, now. It’s as if I have this picture of him in my head and it’s one truth, but I won’t ever see it from another angle. I won’t know the little things. Like, I know his opinion on my work, but I won’t know if he’d like the next Game of Thrones. But maybe it doesn’t matter.” He looks at Arthur as if expecting a wise reply. “Maybe it’s enough to have that one picture? After all, it’s not as we can actually _know_ anyone.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. He used to be so bold and all-knowing when he was younger. A few years back he’d have told Merlin his truth, believing it to be the only one, but things are different now, and people aren’t what they seemed like. Even his own mother, known to Arthur only in the tales of other people, doesn’t appear as saintly as she did when Arthur was a kid. “It’s like with my mum; no matter how many stories I’ll hear about her, it won’t combine into the whole picture. But, I guess, that even if she was here, the way I’d see her would somehow grow along with me.”

He shrugs, not able to explain it better, but Merlin nods, and it makes Arthur feel understood. He’s always stunned at how they can connect on the most important levels despite being as different as they are.

He looks at the meadows that spread in front of them. Yellow-tinged green where the grass has already faded, and brown where the crops have been cut, are interrupted by small islands of dark green trees. Ealdor is such a nice place. He’s never noticed it before, not like this anyway. Sure, he liked the countryside, but it was always about the activities and people he’s been with. The point of focus was just somewhere else. Now, he sometimes feels like a sponge too full of water. He wishes that someone would squeeze him to make room for more feelings, experiences, things that could astound him.

“What time is it?” Merlin asks, and Arthur fishes out his mobile, ignoring the increasing number of red notifications on his email icon.

“Almost one.”

Merlin sighs. “I guess we should get ready.”

Arthur gets up and brushes off his jeans, then helps Merlin up. Merlin’s hand feels dry and cold in Arthur’s palm.

 

***

There’s a great commotion in the house. In the kitchen, Hunith’s friends are unboxing food, moving it from plastic containers into bowls and plates only to cover it with tinfoil and store it in the overflowing fridge. Cakes and pies are put in rows on the counters like some silent army awaiting battle.

Merlin waves to Hunith, and she wipes her hands on her apron.

“We should get ready.” Both she and Merlin speak at the same time and smile at each other.

“Yes,” Hunith says, and she brushes her hand lightly on Merlin’s and then Arthur’s arm as she walks to her bedroom.

Arthur follows Merlin upstairs, the old staircase creaking underneath their feet. Up here it smells of wood and old dust. There’s a small table on the landing next to Merlin’s room with a framed picture of Hunith and Balinor with a newborn Merlin in their arms, and Arthur feels a pang of regret, or maybe selfish jealousy, because he doesn’t have any picture like this of his own family. There are those of his parents—happy and young and active, water skiing, hiking, riding horses—and then there’s nothing. Only Arthur’s obligatory photographs from various events: class photos from every school year, winning a cup in a footie match, his graduation.

Merlin’s room looks bare and unused, since Merlin’s not lived here for years now. Merlin’s duffle bag is on the bed like a gutted fish, items overflowing the seams. There’s a suit hanging on the rack of an old, wooden wardrobe, and Merlin slips his trousers and shirt from underneath the jacket.

“Could you…?” he asks, holding a hand towards Arthur.

“Shit, yes, sorry.” Arthur’s angry at himself for staring instead of making himself useful. He helps Merlin to fasten the cufflinks and then ties his tie for him because Merlin’s always been useless at it. He lets his hands linger on Merlin’s shoulders longer than necessary, maybe as a consolation of sorts, maybe out of habit, or maybe because he’s missed this too much.

Downstairs someone’s playing the old piano; sounds of Albinoni, or maybe Chopin (Arthur’s never been good at classical music), distantly fill the place. They make a mistake and try again so the music is a bit ragged, but it somehow fits the situation, just like the frayed and faded red-and-gold carpet suits Hunith’s living room.

Arthur lets his hands drop. “I’ll go change, too.”

 

***

The weather starts to change at the cemetery. The wind kicks up and dust swirls around. The ceremony is short and to the point, thank God. Arthur stays at the back with Merlin’s school friend Will, who’s made it at the last second. As Arthur watches Merlin holding the black urn with Balinor’s ashes—because cremation is what Balinor had requested, to be burned and only then put in the dirt—Arthur thinks that this is one of those images that will be forever imprinted in his mind: Merlin’s slender sorrow, eyes downcast and wind messing up his too-long fringe. He wonders if it means anything that the last thing connecting Balinor to the earth will be Merlin’s fingerprints left on the black lacquered surface of the urn.

He doesn’t stand in the line for condolences, just waits for Will and they both help with the flowers. This part is the worst—the family trying to not come unglued in front of all the people hugging, patting, and sobbing their good-byes.

“So, are you back together now?” Will asks as they stand later in the back of the living room, serving wine and whisky.

“I don’t…” He wishes he had an answer. “We didn’t talk about it. Not with the whole…” He waves his hand towards the room where people are eating, chatting, and Merlin’s politely fielding a million questions from his aunts and Hunith’s friends.

“Fucked it right up, mate, huh?” Will asks and takes a sip from the glass he’s just filled for a guest. “Oh, bugger.” He chuckles, refills the very glass, and hands it over to a man in a grey tweed suit.

 

***

It’s dark, and the rain clouds that have been gathering all day, hanging low and heavy above their heads, are dispensing their first misty drops when Arthur finally comes back to the house after driving the last aunt back to the adjoining village. In the living room the last guests are still drinking and chatting, their laughter filling the place.

“Oh, God.” He hears Hunith giggle. “We were soaking wet by the time we made it to that cave, and Balinor…”

Arthur’s always avoided any social ceremonies made for experiencing grief together, but he thinks now that maybe he’s been wrong, maybe there’s something like a rite of passage that needs to be done, that eating and drinking and reminiscing together is important so that life can move on without the horrible feeling of a person being forever gone and forgotten.

He finds Merlin on the porch with Will, both drinking bottles of beer and smoking foul smelling cigarettes. Merlin’s leaning back on the porch railing with his eyes half-open, fingers loosely wrapped around his beer. His tie is undone and there are few opened buttons at the top of his shirt, revealing a patch of pale skin just above where his chest hair starts. For a moment Arthur’s transfixed by that patch. He misses it, misses Merlin probably way more than all the people here are missing Balinor right now. It’s quite ironic how he can feel such an ache for a living person who’s right next to him, and mourn the lost chances he’s fucked up for himself, while the time stretches between him and Merlin like a taut ribbon. 

Will looks up at Arthur. “I’ll be going, too,” he says. “Just gotta get my Ma off the couch here before they reach the weeping stage.”

There’s laughter coming from the living room, but Arthur guesses Will knows better.

“Take care.” Will hits Arthur on the shoulder, a bit too rough maybe because he’s probably had too much to drink himself. He nods to Merlin. “Merls.”

Merlin doesn’t open his eyes, just hums something in lieu of good-bye.

Arthur leans next to Merlin and takes a sip from Merlin’s beer. The wind is still swirling humidly, but the rain is holding off for now. “You should head to bed,” he says.

“Yhm,” Merlin murmurs, probably already falling asleep. “Oh.” He opens his eyes. “I forgot. Sleeping arrangements. Mum thought we…” He makes a motion with his hand indicating the space between them. “So we have to share the bed tonight.”

Arthur laughs, because, my, does it sound familiar. No matter what he does he must end up sharing a bed with Merlin in the end. His heart makes a traitorous jump at the thought that Merlin might have not told Hunith they aren’t together anymore.

“I think we’ll manage just fine,” he says. “Come on. Let me put you to bed.”

 

***

“You’re not asleep yet?” Arthur asks after he’s checked and replied to all the urgent emails and found Merlin lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

Arthur slips under the heavy duvet, shivering a bit. Outside the rain has finally broken, filling the place with its familiar, soothing, monotonous rhythm, as if the whole world is weeping because Merlin’s father is gone. Arthur inches closer to Merlin on the bed, pressing his body close, since Merlin’s bed is just too bloody narrow for two grown men to sleep in.

Merlin turns to Arthur and throws his arm around Arthur’s body, pulling him closer. His lips are warm and swollen when he starts kissing Arthur, as if he’s been crying the whole day, even though Arthur’s not seen a single tear.

“Oh God.” Arthur grunts, because he’s getting hard so fast it’s ridiculous. Why doesn’t his stupid body respect the situation? But he’s tugging on Merlin too, getting lost in the kisses, deep and hungry and so Merlin-ish Arthur feels like sobbing and fucking Merlin all at once. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying to move back so his cock isn’t nudging Merlin’s thigh like a crowbar.

Merlin hides his face in Arthur’s neck. “Christ, I missed you.”

“I’m sorry I left you,” Arthur says.

“I’m sorry I let you go.”

“Will you come back to London with me?” Arthur asks before he catches himself. Asking this right now is fucked up; this is Merlin’s dad’s funeral and it’s hardly a good moment to talk about them, or their possible future. Or maybe it’s the best moment. “The project in Zurich is over, right?”

Merlin is silent and it makes Arthur’s blood run cold. Each heartbeat is a thick thud in his chest, a dull throb in his temples as he awaits his verdict, aware that he’s the one who blew it before. 

“There will always be other projects,” Merlin finally says.

“I know. We’ll deal with it.” What Arthur doesn’t add is that he thinks they’ll grow into it. They’ll make it. He wants to make it work like he’s never wanted anything before.

Merlin catches Arthur’s hand, squeezing a bit too hard, clutching it. ““I want to. Just, give me few days here, for mum. But I want to.”

Arthur breathes out and relaxes, nuzzling into Merlin’s skin. When he falls asleep to the sound of the rain outside, they’re still holding hands.

 

THE END


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